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CHASING MIDNIGHT will be released 6 MARCH 2012. The novel is already receiving rave reviews, and Randy says it’s his best pure-Florida thrillers to date. Read the first chapter, you’ll be hooked.





































































































CHASING MIDNIGHT “Intelligent, fast-paced, with plenty of intriguing wildlife lore.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review) “As always, White handles the action scenes superbly, writing with both precision and dramatic flair, but he gets inside the heads of his characters, too.” —Booklist “A well-written, suspenseful tale that introduces us to some irresistible new characters.” —The Associated Press
SAMPLE CHAPTER CHASING MIDNIGHT COPYRIGHT RANDY WAYNE WHITE G.P.Putnam’s Sons 2012 a novel by Randy Wayne White ONE 
 I was beneath fifteen-feet of water, at night, observing a dinosaurian fish that produces a modern gourmet delicacy, when something exploded and knocked out the marina’s underwater lights. The fish, a Gulf sturgeon, was armor-plated, six-feet long, hunkered close to the bottom as it fed. It’s close relative, the Beluga sturgeon, is the gold standard of caviar lovers, and sacred cow to the global, billion-dollar caviar trade. My interest in sturgeon, and the often corrupt caviar industry, was a secondary reason for spending this new moon evening, in June, on one of Florida’s exclusive private islands. Vanderbilt Island, by name, on the Gulf of Mexico. It is forty acres of palms, sand, and Old Florida architecture, north of Vanderbilt Beach, south of Sanibel Island, concealed by swamp and shallow water in a remote corner of Estero Bay. A handful of the caviar trade’s elite were on the island for a weekend forum, hosted by a Russian black market millionaire. Officially, he was rallying interest in a new U.S. import company. Privately, he claimed to have found a legal way around the international ban on Beluga products. It had something to do with altering the Gulf sturgeon’s DNA to produce larger eggs, like its Caspian Sea cousin. "Eggs firm and finely skinned so they burst between the teeth with hints of butter, almonds and fresh ocean air – each pearl black as a Caspian midnight," according to literature in my gift bag when I checked in. Gulf sturgeon were common in Florida until the 1930s, when they were netted almost into non-existence between Tampa Bay and the Florida Keys. The idea of a genetically altered hybrid had merit --on paper, anyway. But I was dubious. Sufficiently so to finagle an invitation for myself and my pal, Tomlinson, who, it turned out, had already received a personal invite. I was not surprised. The man may look like Scarecrow in a New Age Wizard of Oz, but he has rock star qualities that make him a favorite of the famous, and the infamous, poor boat bums and yachtsmen alike. To almost everyone, Tomlinson is an Everyman with aggressive edges worn smooth by demons, hallucinogenics, and his daily use of cannabis. As an author, he is revered by spiritualist types. As an ordained Zen Buddhist monk, he has a devoted cult following -- even though the man is anything but monk-like in his appetites and behaviors. Unmonkish – an understatement. Tomlinson worships many gods, but none so devoutly as women. Age, size, marital status are, too him, only alluring variations that add spice. Seducing women is his true vocation, although money doesn’t change hands (as far as I know.) His “hobbies” – lecturing, teaching Zen and growing marijuana on nearby, uninhabited islands – provide the cash required to live an otherwise simple life. My pal is, frankly, a pain-in-the-ass more than occasionally. But he is also one of the smartest people I know. It was one of the reasons I wanted Tomlinson along. But not the main reason. The Russian host was justifiably suspicious of me. Same with his caviar competitors from Iran and Kazakhstan, and the fourth major player at the forum, a Chinese mega-millionaire by the name of Lee Bohai Hai. I’m a marine biologist who is sometimes contracted by the same governmental agencies, state and federal, that are mandated to protect endangered species such as the Beluga sturgeon. I hoped my association with Tomlinson -- an unrepentant hipster, who reeked of patchouli oil and enlightenment -- would veil my true intentions. Fact was, a government agency had instructed me to attend the forum. The agency’s interest in the Russian – Viktor Kazlov -- was classified for reasons that had less to do with caviar than his business dealings in the Middle East. Kazlov was my primary reason for being on the island. I had grown tired of the formal reception, though, that was still going strong in the island’s main lodge. The bar and dining room were crowded, and I'm uncomfortable in crowds. Then Tomlinson invited one of the most abrasive women I’d ever met to our table, an environmental activist named Winifred Densler. “Enviro-elitist” would be a more accurate way to describe her, because it includes iconoclasts from both political wings, right and left. Something else I noticed: Kazlov’s bodyguards were watching me a little too closely. I wanted out. I had things to do. I was particularly curious about what the Russian’s luxury yacht looked like from beneath the surface. It was a twenty-some meter Dragos Voyager, black hull, white upper deck, built in Turkey. One glance at its bright red waterline told me it was a false waterline, and the craft was carrying something heavy. What? So I had given Kazlov’s security people the slip, and left Tomlinson to deal with the poisonous Ms. Densler, plus her techy-looking associates, all members of a controversial environmental organization, Third Planet Peace Force. 3P2F was an accepted abbreviation, although 3P2 was more commonly used. The members I’d met were in-your-face activists who had vowed to save the Beluga sturgeon. And the Caspian Sea. Probably the world, too, for all I knew. They were very proud of the fact that Kazlov – whom they called an “environmental gangster” – had bowed to their demands to be included on the guest list as “nonpartisan observers.” In other words, the group had bullied the Russian bully. And they were eager to tell anyone willing to listen. So I listened, but not for long. Alone at last, beneath a starry June sky, I had donned scuba gear, and slipped into the water. I wanted to spend some time observing the Gulf sturgeon penned there as an exhibit, and enjoy the solitude of depth and darkness before getting serious about inspecting Kazlov’s yacht. Not total darkness, of course. The docks were illuminated by rows of underwater lights, which provided both visibility and entertainment. Underwater lights attract baitfish. Baitfish attract bigger fish. Big fish attract the true ocean-going predators. There was no telling what was swimming around out there in the gloom. The night sea is relentless theater, one small drama after another, alive with sounds. With my own exhaust bubbles as a metronome, catfish bawled, distant dolphins pinged, pistol shrimp crackled among pilings where spadefish and sheepshead grazed. Mostly, though, my attention was fixed on the Gulf Surgeon. At six-feet long, two hundred pounds, the animal was probably twenty to thirty years old – less than half of its probable life span. As it moved along the bottom, suction-feeing sand worms and isopods, it reacted to my presence with the guarded indifference of a species that has survived for two hundred million years. If Batman had a boat, it might resemble the gothic symmetry that defines the twenty-some species in the family Acipenseridae. The Gulf sturgeon I was watching was a tri-edged submarine, shaped like a spear from the Bronze Age. Its armored scutes were suggestive of helmets worn by jousting knights, its lateral lines effective, timeless shields. Had the Civil War Ironclads enjoyed the same protection, their battles might have survived the harbor. The sturgeon is among the few bony fishes to have flourished through ice ages, meteorite assaults, and global volcanic upheavals that dinosaurs and a million other long-gone species could not endure. Only in the last hundred years has the animal’s genetic virtuosity been tested. Loss of habitat and pollution play roles. But it is the global love of caviar that has put the fish on the endangered species list. Female sturgeon of all species are slow to mature – ten to twenty years before they can produce the eggs for which they are caught and killed by poachers and black marketeers. This fish, only yards away, was a prime example of a healthy Gulf Sturgeon – and why I didn’t want to miss this rare opportunity to observe it feeding at night. So I was enjoying myself. Until the explosion. # I had been underwater for about twenty minutes when it happened. I heard a percussive thud that jarred the soft tissue of my inner ears, and left me blinking in darkness. Then I felt a delayed, radiating pressure that caused me to grab for a dock piling as a mild shockwave rolled past, my swim fins fluttering, but not much. I didn’t know, of course, but the explosion also took out every light on the island, along with the island’s emergency redundancy systems – backup lighting, generators, computers and the land-based communication systems. Also unknown to me, a military grade GSM mobile blocking device had been simultaneously activated to jam cell phones, wireless Internet, and VHF radios. Suddenly, for the first time since its first telephone was installed, Vanderbilt Island was actually an island. Instead of suspecting that a hostile group was taking the island hostage – something I should have given serious consideration -- my first thought was Lightning strike. It made sense. Only a few minutes before, a rain squall, ion-charged, had strafed the coast, moving westward in darkness toward the Yucatan. I had waited until I thought the danger was past, but summer storms are tricky to predict. Night clouds were still incandescence, rumbling spires when I entered the water. Lightning hit a transformer, and the transformer exploded. It explained the power outage that, just as abruptly, changed the underwater world I now inhabited. In the space of those few seconds, the dinosaurian sturgeon I was observing ascended several million years in the hierarchy of fish and primates. I was demoted proportionally. On the Darwinian ladder, the fish was instantly more advanced than some dumbass, bat-blind marine biologist who happened to be underwater and alone, breathing air from tanks. Me, the dumbass biologist. A moment later, it got worse. My sense of direction was skewed, and I somehow ended-up under the docks. How far, I wasn’t sure, but I banged into enough pilings to know it had happened. Calmly, very calmly, I attempted to surface. Fifteen feet is a short distance, unless you are underwater -- and unless the valve of your scuba tank snags a cable tethered to the bottom. It happened. For a spooky moment, I strained against the cable. It stretched, but wouldn’t break. Then, instead of dumping my gear, and swimming to the surface, I made the stupid decision to try and free myself rather than leave so much expensive equipment behind. More than one diver has killed himself for the sake of a few hundred dollars. Steadying myself against a piling, I used my right hand to search for whatever it was I had snagged. Finally, I found it: a jumble of nylon rope. Even through my leather gloves, I could tell. Maybe the line from a crab trap had been blown in by the squall. Strapped to my belt, I was carrying a perfectly good dive knife. A superb knife, in fact. One of the last stainless steel survival knives made personally by the late Bo Randall of Orlando. But, once again, I put the value of my equipment ahead of my own safety. If I pulled the knife from its scabbard, I risked dropping it – probably never to be found in the silt below. Instead, I traced the nylon line until it became taunt. I got a couple of wraps around my hand, used the piling as my anchor, and gave a violent yank. Suddenly, instead of just being snagged, I was tangled in what felt like a ascending web of rope. Another very poor decision. Me, the dumbass, indeed. So my realty was now this: I was underwater, alone, in total darkness, tangled and tethered to the bottom. Yet . . . I still wasn’t worried. Not really. I had plenty of options, plenty of air, and I have lived an unusual life. I had been in tougher spots than this and survived. Marion D. Ford, world traveler, expert waterman, drown in a marina basin in four meters of water? Not likely. Ego, again. Diving alone at night isn’t for amateurs, nor the poorly equipped. In that way, at least, I was prepared. I had a good knife. Looped to my dive vest, I also had a brilliant little Fenix LED flashlight. I decided to have a look at what I was dealing with before going to work with my knife. Methodical action, taking small, careful steps, is my way of neutralizing panic. When I freed the flashlight, though, my hand banged what might have been a piling cross-tie, which caused me to fumble and drop the thing. Uckkin Id-ot! Even though I spoke through my regulator, a dive buddy – had I been wise enough to have recruited one – would have understood that I was getting frustrated. Fortunately, I’d hit the flashlight’s pressure switch before it tumbled to the bottom. It landed on its side. Visibility was better than usual after a storm – which means the viz was poor, only a few yards at most. Even so, the little LED speared a dazzling column of light toward a buoyed ring of netting where the sturgeon I had been watching was penned. A second sturgeon had joined the animal, I noted through the murk. Both appeared unfazed as they hugged the bottom, silt blooming from their gills, as they suctioned crustaceans and worms from unseen holes. I was amused by the notion the fish were now observing me, but I knew better. Even in temporary captivity, wild Florida sturgeon had better things to do. The flashlight provided enough ancillary light for me to take stock of the situation. Yes, I was tangled in a hundred feet of crab line, a weighted trap somewhere off in the gloom. For the next ten minutes, I stayed very busy trying to recover from my error, and then a snowballing series of small mistakes that no diver with my experience should have made. Underwater, the only expert divers worthy of the term have scales, or fluked tails. No matter how shallow, or close to shore, that reality doesn’t change. Primates are rank tourists whenever depth exceeds the distance between our feet and our nose. For me, the “expert diver,” it was a much deserved kick in the butt. And a reminder that 'the unexpected' only surprises amateurs, drunks and children. It would not be the most compelling reminder of the night. A stranger, pointing a semi-automatic pistol at my head, would provide that. (I read this book in one long night, and the ending was a real shocker. I never saw it coming. I fell in love with Tula, there are some all-time classic Tomlinson lines, and Ford gets REALLY mad in a way that I always hoped he would. He throws away all the rules, which is something I’ve been waiting for. You’ll love it. Steve Grendon) Unable to make a signing? Pre-order by clicking links below CHASING MIDNIGHT Barnes & Noble CHASING MIDNIGHT Amazon.com Or call Sanibel Island Book store BEFORE 4 MARCH. to pre-order a signed copy: 239-472-5223 http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Night-Vision/Randy-Wayne-White/e/9780399157059/?itm=1&USRI=night+vision+randy+wayne+whitehttp://www.amazon.com/Night-Vision-Randy-Wayne-White/dp/0399157050/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1291134993&sr=1-1http://www.sanibelbookshop.com/http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/chasing-midnight-randy-wayne-white/1104073657?ean=9780399158315&itm=1&usri=randy+wayne+white+chasing+midnightshapeimage_3_link_0shapeimage_3_link_1shapeimage_3_link_2